Time After Time Part One: Mopery
by Wanting Memories
Summary: After spending several months in 1969 looking for Cas, Dean looks pretty shabby. Actually he looks a lot like a hippy, and he's about to learn what that means to a small town in Alabama. Based on a (hilarious) true story. Rated M for language. If you squint hard, you might see Destiel.


_This is based on a story my brother-in-law tells of his hippy days. I just thought: how funny would it be if the same thing happened to Dean? You can feel free to let me know. Please excuse the excess of exhibition. I normally try to avoid that, but this is a shorty._

_No offense intended to the fine people of Pleasantville, Alabama._

* * *

Dean fingered another long strand of hair out of his eyes as he trudged along the side of the road. His feet hurt, his back hurt, and fuck it his ass hurt. He scratched at the back of his jeans along a sore and itchy patch of his only feature that was prettier than his face—in his humble opinion. Damn but he needed a _bath. _He'd never been so dirty in his life. Guess that's what happened when you lived on the road out of a sleeping bag and duffle for several days straight.

Since the hunter's time in 1969 began, he'd done his fair share of hitchhiking and sleeping in the woods. But, this was the first time he'd been so long without so much as a wash up. He hadn't seen a gas station or truck stop in days, and he had been too set on staying next to the road to venture off to find some water source more than a couple inches deep. It was safe to say that Dean reeked.

More than that, Dean was hungry. He'd run out of his last granola bar early that morning and it was nearly dark. He had one pack of crackers, but after that he was done. He had nothing with him to hunt with whatsoever, so if he was forced to resort to living off the land, it would take some thinking and patience—two things that did not keep Dean company when he was hungry.

He was also very nearly out of clean water sources. The small creek along the road was starting to dry up, and his canteen was only half full. He needed to find a town or a ride and he needed to find one of those things _soon._

* * *

Castiel was missing. That meant that all Dean could do was look for him. Forget hunting, forget Sam (for now); he needed to find Cas. He was scraping around for any way to find his friend, and that's what lead him to Balthazar—the only other angel alive who hadn't turned on them directly.

"I need you to send me back there." Dean flipped through his father's journal for any information on the year 1969 that may be of help. He'd done it hundreds of times with nothing to show for it, but he had nothing better to do with his hands while he wasted time explaining everything to the angel.

The blond man with the low v-neck shirt sat back in the hotel room chair and crossed his legs. "And how did we" the angel used the word "we" in a very pointed way to indicate that he meant an accusatory "you" by it, "lose Castiel in 1969?"

Dean rolled his eyes as he placed the worn journal on the desk. "We were hunting a demon that wanted to end the world—"

"Typical," Balthazar interjected. "Go on."

"We'll we got it, but then Cas didn't have enough angel juice left to send us both back. I was gonna hang out with him in the past for a few days while he recouped, but…"

"Some unspeakable evil occurred and he decided to send you back where you would be safe, and battle the force by himself?"

"Uh—yeah." Dean looked a little surprised, then added "Fucker."

Balthazar shook his head and stood up, adjusting his jacket as he went. "Fucker indeed. This is also typical for Cassie. Always putting your safety above his own."

The hunter lowered his head in what amounted to shame for him. "Yeah."

"Well," the angel looked around the cheep hotel room for just a moment. "I can send you back but I can't go with you."

Dean took a step forward. "That's fine."

The blond looked at the hunter and held a slight glint in his eye. "Just like that? And what if you never find him? Hm? What if Deany-boy can't find his angel and gets stuck in the wrong time period?"

The human could only close his gaping mouth. He hadn't really thought of that. He'd just thought "save Cas" and jumped without looking. He guessed it was a lot like what Cas always did for him. Fucker.

Balthazar rolled his eyes. "I won't be able to go back with you, however I can give you a sort of beacon. You can activate it when you have found Cassie…or when you've given up." Dean was pretty sure he was not imagining the pain on the angel's face when he spoke of the second possibility. "I'll have you back here, not five minutes from now, as soon as you call."

The green eyes watched the angel for a moment before nodding. "Thanks, man."

"Don't start acting like one of those blasted cherubs. Castiel has saved my ass on more than one occasion. I am doing this for him, not you."

"Totally fair."

Balthazar smiled for a moment before he reached out to Dean, holding an amulet in his palm. "Make sure it is against the skin when you pray to me, and I will hear it in this time. Are you ready to go?"

Dean took the amulet and threw the leather strap over his head and tucked it beneath his shirt. He looked over his things. "I need to pack."

The angel shook his head solemnly. "I'm sorry Dean. Cassie is stronger than me. I can't send non-living things back through time."

Dean gaped. "But—what about my clo—what about the amulet?"

Balthazar grinned crookedly. "It has a bit of my grace it in—this makes it a living thing."

"Ew." Dean said automatically. The angel shook his head. "Fine, just get me back there."

"Gladly." Dean saw two fingers approach his head, then all was lost.

After waking up in a barn, buck-naked, Dean first retrieved some clothes from a fine man named Jethro, then sorted himself out enough to head to the nearest town. That had been months ago. A few times, he'd looked at the amulet around his neck and considered going home, but decided against it. Cas searched for him for years in hell, and he'd never turned his back on Dean. Dean wasn't about to puss out on Cas.

He'd had a few odd jobs to feed himself and buy supplies while he searched, but most of his time over the last couple of months had been spent on the road. Normally Dean would be leery about hitching, but in 1969 he'd seen that it was much more common place. He felt pretty comfortable with himself and figured he could handle just about anything if he could fight demons. He'd managed to purchase a duffle bag and a sleeping bag which had proven to be well worth the money when he was traveling in this manner. The hunter had no firearms with him (it wasn't smart to carry a gun and act as a drifter in 1969 as he had found out the hard way), but he'd managed to buy a hunting knife for basic protection and needs should be find reason to use it. He'd even managed to save a little of what he earned and he was now carrying around a little over two-hundred bucks in his I.D.-less wallet, which was nothing to sniff at for a bum in 1969.

The down side was that he'd never found the time to get a haircut. He had a substantial mop on his head—something he had never had before—with the back of it touching his shoulders. He just hadn't _cared _about his image enough. A haircut was nothing compared to the importance of hunting for a shower and warm bed. The downside was the longer hair had a record for making some people turn him away when it came to finding odd jobs. Long-haired freaky people need not apply.

He needed a haircut, a shower, and some food in his belly.

And he needed to find Cas.

* * *

His boots scuffed along the asphalt as he spotted a sign in the distance. Dean pushed the hair back from his face and picked up his pace to better read the text. Once he got close enough, he stalled in his tracks and gripped his duffle tight. He contemplated turning back right then, and just going into the woods for the night before heading in another direction.

The sign before him read "Welcome to Pleasentville, Alabama!" That was all fine and dandy. Below this sign was a tacked up, home-made sign that once read "nigger, don't let the sun set on you." Now however, the first word had been scratched out and above it was written "hippy."

Dean fingered the long strand of hair out of his eye and once again took note that it was nearly dark. He looked back from where he came, to the sign before him once more. He wondered what would be the worse course of action for his health.

"Fuck," he breathed.

Before Dean could think through to a decision on the matter, a Pleasantville town cop who had been making his rounds, slowly pulled up alongside his place on the white line.

The officer wore a smoky-the-bear type hat that must have been at least a size too small, as far as Dean could tell, based on how high it sat on the man's head. He looked like he could barely fit behind the wheel of the small black car with a bubble light on top. The man slowly opened his door and began a side to side motion, twisting in his seat. Dean vaguely wondered if the man had an itch until he realized the motion was to help officer fatass remove himself from the car. After a final shift and wiggle, the cop managed to stand with a sigh that could rival any Dean had uttered on any of his hunting trips.

The man turned to Dean with a bloated red face before hitching up his belt and asking "Son, where're ya goin'?"

The younger man shouldered his duffle more securely and answered as respectfully as he could muster. "No place in particular, officer."

The policeman trudged closer, eyeing Dean's worn boots as he did. "Well, in that case I'll be puttin' you under arrest."

Dean took an automatic step back, then reminded himself he needed to remain respectful. "What for, Sir?"

The cop, who'd removed his hat and was now wiping the sweat from his balding forehead, replied with a half smile. "Mopering."

He couldn't help it. He really wanted to get out of this situation with respectful finesse, but he just couldn't stop the word vomit from coming up. Maybe it was because he'd lived with the closed-mindedness of the police and seen it increase dramatically as his hair had grown and his jeans had weathered over the past months. When he'd first arrived clean shaven and with short hair, he'd been golden boy to these guys. He was still the same person, but being treated like a complete bitch because he was a bit dirtier and had longer hair.

So, all Dean could say was; "Are you guys just making this shit up now?"

Officer Fatass frowned and returned his hat to his already once again sweaty head. "No, son. I'm not." He held out his hand palm up and looked to Dean with expectancy. Dean slowly realized he wanted his bag for a search. He resisted the desire—no, the _need_ to roll his eyes—and handed over his duffle. There was no escaping the bullshit at this point. He was in the middle of nowhere and the cop could do whatever he damn well-pleased with him. No sense in getting in more trouble for resisting.

The officer began his search—for drugs, Dean was sure—as he spoke. "Mopery is the act of movin' or travelin' without a planned destination. Moperin'." He palmed around the rolled up sleeping bag and through Dean's stash of newspapers he'd collected in an attempt to trace signs of Castiel or of whatever had him. He spotted an article about a tree growing to a height of what would be expected for one four times it's age, hoping and also fearing that Cas had somehow fallen and lost his grace. However, it was nothing but a mutated tree and some really bored stoners talking it up.

With meaty hands, the officer pulled out one of his clipped articles on a town which had been experiencing good luck—particularly the children of the hospital who'd seemed to be getting better very quickly. He turned it over quickly and eyed Dean before he shoved it back into the duffle. Dean hadn't gotten a chance to check that one out, so he hoped it was still intact when he got his bag back. Then, seemingly satisfied that the bag was clean, the cop handed it back to Dean.

"Son, will you come easily or do I need to get my cuffs?"

Dean rolled his eyes and felt his shoulders slump. "Yeah I'll come easy."

He had three options. He could pay the fine, talk to the justice of the peace, or wait for his trial on Monday with the judge. Dean was more than willing to pay the fine, but unfortunately that was also handled by the judge, who was the justice of the peace, who was away fishing for the weekend. So, even though Dean was given three options; really he had one. So he spent his weekend from Friday evening to Monday morning in the Pleasentville jailhouse.

* * *

Officer Fatass took his duffle with everything in it. He took his knife he'd hid in his boot, his belt, his watch, because apparently Dean was looking like he might kill himself over mopering. The good news: no cavity search. The hunter was unsure if that was related to the time period or the utter lack of conviction on Fatass's part, but he was glad for it.

Really, it wasn't a bad deal. What Officer Fatass—excuse me—Officer Ebert failed to consider was that this was the first time in weeks Dean had a real shower. Sure, he'd managed truck stops and gas stations, but often the best those could offer was a sink and some old shitty soap. Not only did Dean get his own bar of soap, but he had shampoo, a _hot_ shower, and God the water pressure…

And the food. Good lord, it almost made Dean a believer. The jailhouse was four cells. Four freakin' cells and a locker room—which was for the police, but doubled for any inmates like him when needed. It was attached to the police station, which in turn was right beside city hall. This meant there was no cafeteria of any sort. _That_ meant that when the town had a "prisoner," the local diner fed him. The first night Dean had a boxed dinner of roast with potatoes, carrots, and—this was why he was starting to believe—apple pie. Southern, homemade, apple pie. Furthermore because they were southern, the portions were amazing—or maybe the woman who ran the diner just liked to make her "guests" feel at home so over fed them. Whatever. Dean shoveled the food into his stomach, deciding mopery was the best obtuse crime ever.

Oh! And sweet tea. Mmmm…better than McDonald's.

The woman who delivered his food was a short, plump woman with an open and kind face. Dean laughed out loud when she handed him a metal fork and a metal knife to eat with right in front of the officer who had taken anything that could be considered a weapon from him earlier. He sat down in his cell after a hearty thank-you to the lady, scratched at the knee of his borrowed pants, then dug right in. The woman—she could probably be his mother—watched him for a few minutes before speaking.

"You don't look like you'd cause much trouble; so polite. What are you in for?"

Dean swallowed a large mouthful before gulping some of his tea and responding "Mopery."

The woman from the diner—Dean was now pretty sure she was the owner—looked over to the officer and frowned. "Oh dear, Floyd. You best be lettin' him out before Judge Baker comes back on Monday."

Officer Floyd Ebert shrugged with a grunt, but Dean noticed how his face lost a hint of color.

Dean slept through the night like a baby. There really was nothing like clean sheets and a mattress—no matter how narrow or firm it was. When he fell asleep, Fatass was there. When he woke up the next morning, Fatass was there again. However, when he woke up to piss in the middle of the night, Officer Ebert wasn't around. Dean figured he must have gone home for the night.

This was only confirmed to him when the cop left a little after Dean's breakfast (bacon, eggs, and oatmeal with brown sugar). It seemed that Floyd Ebert was the only officer on duty this weekend, and had better places to be. He was gone most of the day; even through lunch when Dean was well equipped with metal utensils. The woman from the diner—Gloria he discovered was her name—kept him company through the meals while she worked on crossword puzzles. She talked about her family, and Dean mostly listened. Because she seemed like a decent sort, he did mention that he was looking for his cousin, Cas, who'd been overseas and was a bit off now. He emphasized that the man was sweet as can be, though. Gloria hadn't heard a thing about a wandering man in a trench coat. She patted his hand through the cell door in sympathy.

After lunch, Dean had nothing to do. He paced the cell for a while, but that got old very fast. He tried to nap, but he was too well rested from the night before and his morning nap to kill time. The cop hadn't let Dean keep the amulet Balthazar had given him—it was in lockup with his other belongings. It had been in the same place for so long, his sternum felt naked without it. Much like when he ditched the brass amulet Sam had given him.

_Fuck! _There wasn't even graffiti in the cell for him to read.

Floyd returned halfway through Dean's dinner. The hunter had managed to entertain himself for the afternoon with some really glorious air-banding of his favorite songs—never say Dean Winchester had no imagination. Thankfully, Gloria had brought him a few books to read. Most were books he would care little for, but it was _something._ And much more than anything Fatass had done for him. He was currently flipping through a crazy-ass novel about a town of men who replaced their wives with robots. It was creepy. Dean had to admit it was a little hard to put down when the fine officer told him it was shower time.

Two showers in two days was like being home again. His hair was actually clean enough and long enough that Dean could spot a few golden highlights. Dean had never known he had that color in his hair, and even though it was nowhere near as light as his mother's had been, it served as a reminder that he was hers and not just a product of his father who he so resembled.

The night was long. He wasn't tired at all from a day of leisure, and Ebert had flipped off the lights on his way out. There was no reading. Dean felt like a giant nerd as he leaned against the brick wall, wishing for some light to read by. Sammy would be so proud.

Thankfully, the streetlight shining through the window was just enough for him to read by without killer eyestrain. Dean never finished off a novel in one night (hell, he usually didn't have time to finish books), but he managed to that night. He found himself closing the book just as the officer and Gloria unlocked the building to deliver his breakfast. A quick piss and a meal later, Dean had his nose buried in a book. This one was a current work. Even though Dean had been living in 1969 for months at this point, he'd kept his nose to the ground looking for his angel. He'd tried to stay out of politics and anything that seemed like it could get him arrested—save for the mopery of course. As he read page after page, he was beginning to grasp the desperation of the time, and the hope of the generation. He wondered how his parents made it through without being completely high.

This book, he had to put down about mid-way through the morning and he took a long nap. Between his own problems in his own time, missing his brother, and the loss of his best friend, he just felt exhausted. He woke up when it was time for dinner—apparently sleeping through Gloria's attempts to wake him for lunch.

"Honey, you need to be eatin' something." The round face hovered above his own and her hand stroked a random strand of hair out of his eyes. "This and tomorrow's breakfast might be the last good meals you get for some time."

That's when Dean realized something about Gloria. She had a son out there, who'd probably been in the war from some stuff he'd gathered, and who was lost to her now. He was on the road. Probably every time he came home to see her—always with less frequency—she fed him like she might never see him again.

Dean sat up on his cot and ate his dinner as she sat beside him and watched. When he finished, she patted him on the arm, then left. Officer Ebert was nowhere to be found until shower time, then was gone again shortly after. Dean was left with no books and nothing to do. Anyway, he really didn't feel like reading.

* * *

He spent most of this night half dreaming and half awake. He dreamed of Sam, Cas, Bobby, and finally what he remembered of his mother and father when they were a normal family. A lot of how Dean remembered his mother involved her being pregnant with Sam. It was an image burned into his brain when he thought of her—his mother waiting for his baby brother.

In his dreams, constantly he was finding Castiel and taking him home. In his bad dreams he was finding Jimmy's body lifeless, and going home alone. He would then try to summon Cas, hoping he was simply in astral form rather than dead. There would be nothing—no response. It would be like that year alone…but worse and more final. He didn't want to live without that dumbass angel in his life.

* * *

The morning came both too soon, and yet not early enough. He shared his last meal with Gloria and Floyd ate with them. The large officer even treated him as something closer to human. Dean figured it must have been because Dean's personality turned out to be something other than total hippy. They ate scrambled eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Dean couldn't ask for more.

After breakfast, he washed his face and ran a comb through his hair in preparation for his meeting with the judge. Gloria brought him a brown bag with new clothes folded up inside.

"No sense in you meeting the judge looking like you belong in jail." She waved him off with her hand. "I had Floyd burn your old clothes. There was no savin' them."

Dean made a valiant attempt to pay her, but there was no negotiation with Gloria.

"You just take care of yourself, Lenny." She patted him on the arm again before leaving the jailhouse for the last time that Dean would see. In his time, she was surely dead. The thought made him feel hollow inside, but he quickly shook it off with the thought that if he hadn't been in a shitty situation, he would have never known her.

Dean was beginning to believe he might become the kind of person who saw the glass half full.

After changing and one last bathroom break just in case, Officer Ebert cleared his throat. Dean stepped out of the cell and then was cuffed after—completely against procedure, but in Floyd's defense he could probably _fall_ on Dean and take him out faster than Dean could run.

The cuffs were loose as Officer Ebert—Dean just couldn't call him "Fatass" after how respectful he was this morning—lead him into the adjacent building to be processed. They entered a small courtroom that Dean figured he could probably spit across, and took their seats. There were two towns people in the seats behind them—probably trying to get out paying traffic tickets or something—but Dean's case was first on the docket.

After only a few minutes, a gray-haired man in a brown suit (minus the jacket) entered. No one said "all rise" and her didn't have a robe. None-the-less, the man took a quick seat in the judge's box and rolled up his sleeves once there. He picked up the court documents, read them over quickly, adjusted his glasses, then finally ran his fingertips over his pencil mustache.

_Oh Fuck,_ Dean thought. _Ex-Navy or something that will hate hippies._

The judge coughed, then dropped his papers and removed his glasses. "Floyd," he indicated to Officer Ebert. "What's this about?"

Dean watched as the officer's eyes slid over to him, then back to the judge. "Mopery, Sir."

The gray-haired man looked utterly aghast. "Mopery?"

"Yessir, it's the act of—"

"I _know_ what mopery is, Floyd. Why the hell are you bringing to me?"

The officer's face seemed to lose some color. "Your honor Mitch, it's the law."

"From colonial days," the judge grumbled into his paper work as he shuffled it in front of his face. Finally, he stopped and put it down to look directly at Dean.

"Son?"

Dean perked up slightly. "Yes, your honor?"

"You've been in jail since Friday evening?"

"Yessir."

"Fine." He wrote something down quickly. "Do you plead gulty?"

Dean was opening his mouth to say something along the lines of "fuck no," when he saw the judge looking at him and nodding fervently.

"Uh…" Dean glanced at Officer Floyd, whose eyes were wide in shock. "Yes?"

"Fine." He wrote down one more thing. "Then I sentence you with time served." The gavel came down quickly. "Next."

The Winchester son felt like he'd just gotten off a roller coaster. He'd waited a whole weekend for this quick of a result? Insane.

"Well then." Offer Ebert hitched his belt and turned to Dean. "I reckon we should be getting your stuff back then."

Dean, feeling downright shell-shocked, simple nodded as his cuffs were removed. He followed Floyd back into the jailhouse and waited in an uncomfortable wooden chair while his bag, wallet, and knife were retrieved. When Officer Ebert returned, he patted him on the shoulder and directed him toward the sign out and exit.

It was all very weird. To just be a free man suddenly like that with no stepping stone into it was very fuckin' weird.

Though, not as weird as seeing Castiel in the parking lot.

* * *

Dean froze in place, sure it was some sort of fucking mirage.

"Hello, Dean," the man in the tan trench coat said.

Dean's throat clicked as he swallowed. "Dude…"

"I'm happy to see you too—"

"Where the fuck were you?"

Cas rolled his eyes to the side, then looked back to his friend. "I was grounded. Do not ask right now; let us just go." That's when he seemed to take in Dean's appearance.

"What happened?"

Dean's mouth shot open, then slowly his face turned red. "'What happened?' What the fuck happened? _What do you mean 'what happened?'_ I've been stuck in 1969 for _months_ looking for your feathery ass!"

The angel didn't respond. He only looked at Dean with raised eyebrows.

"And I just pled gulty to mopery!"

"What is that?"

Dean just shoved past a small child who'd been watching their exchange. He came up nose-to-nose with Cas. "Just don't even ask. It's a fucking _long_ story, man. And with no clear punch line!"

The angel began touched his human's shoulder and was about to say something, when a police car pulled up beside of the two.

Dean turned to look into the rolled down window and saw a very familiar face. "Officer Ebert." He said as he shook off Cas's hand. "What can I do for you today, sir?"

There was a crooked smile from the bloated face. As he tipped his hat, Floyd said "son, where're ya goin'?"

He felt the corners of his mouth curl slightly. "Atlanta, sir."

The grin broadened across Floyd's face as he thumbed his hat back into place. "Good to hear it, son. Good to hear it."

Castiel gave Dean a _very_ long sideways glance as the police car drove away.

Dean shuffled his feet a little, shouldered his pack, and turned to his friend.

"Get us the fuck out of here _now._"

* * *

True to his word, Balthazar returned them not five minutes from when Dean left. His hair was even back into its short and spiky place. Dean flopped down onto the hotel bed with a groan that could rival tornados. He didn't even give a shit that he was totally naked.

He _did_, however, notice that Castiel was bare-butt.

"Dude." Dean waved a hand in Cas's direction to indicate he should put on some clothes.

Castiel rolled his eyes and mimicked the motion. "Dude yourself, Dean."

"Could someone tell me where the fuck Cassie was?"

Dean lolled his head to the side so that Balthazar was in his line of vision. "Ask her. She didn't tell me anything."

Castiel sighed and returned Jimmy's clothes to the body. "I was grounded. I had no idea I was missing for so long." He turned to Dean. "I am truly sorry I put you through that Dean."

The hunter released a long sigh as he sat up to throw on some shorts. "It's okay Cas. I know you'd do the same for me." Castiel nodded, not because it was human convention to agree with such a statement, but because it was the truth.

Dean stood as he pulled up his boxers, letting the waistband snap into place. "But what kept you grounded man? Is it something we should be concerned about?"

"It was another angel—who I do not believe meant any harm by it. I do not think it will be a problem anymo—"

"Cas, you _have_ to tell us. Right Balth?"

The blond cleared his throat. "In fact, Cassie does not _have_ to tell us anything. And it is Balthazar."

Dean pulled a shirt out of his half-packed luggage and guided it over his head. "But Cas, look I just—"

"Oooookay, well then I have heard just enough of this stupidity." The blond angel rolled his eyes. "Castiel; good to see you alive. Take care. Dean Winchester?"

"Hm?" Dean grunted; a bit miffed for being cut off.

"Pleasure as always. Don't call me again." And with that, he was gone.

The two men stood in the cheep hotel room looking at an empty spot against a far wall where the other angel had just been. Slowly they turned back to each other—Dean in his shorts and band tee shirt, and Castiel in his suit and trench coat.

"Come on Cas," Dean pleaded. "Don't leave me in the dark, man."

Castiel held up his hand, palm out. "Dean. It is not a danger. It won't happen again. I will buy you as many bacon cheeseburgers and pieces of pie you could wish for if you would simply let it go."

Dean stared at his friend for a few seconds before nearly leaping into a pair of jeans.

"Deal! Come on, I'm starvin'."

Castiel couldn't hold back a half smirk when in his excitement, Dean bopped himself in the nose when he opened the hotel room door.

* * *

_To be continued._


End file.
